


Hellraiser Helga and the Precautionary Prophecy

by ladyfnick



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, High Fantasy, Prophecy, Swords & Sorcery, grandma warrior, old ladies get shit done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 02:46:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14392632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfnick/pseuds/ladyfnick
Summary: Helga is far too old to be dealing with prophecy nonsense, and yet there she is, stuck with a seer barely out of diapers and a prophecy far too vague for comfort.“You’re Helga,” The seer repeated again, this time sounding a little faint.“A pleasure to meet you, seer,” Helga said.“I was expecting someone more...” The seer trailed off, obviously unable to find a word diplomatic enough.“Male?” Helga suggested.“... I was going to say youthful,” The seer said, though he had the decency to look at least a little sheepish.Helga rolled her eyes. Honestly. “Oh yes, sending an untrained teenager to do the work of a warrior. That always gets the job done.”





	Hellraiser Helga and the Precautionary Prophecy

“Do you know where I can find Hellraiser Helga? I’ve heard she can be found around here.”

Helga had been busy trying to avoid getting dragged into the weekly argument between Farmer Ryan and Horse Thief Ryan by pretending to be working, but she put her rag down and surveyed the man at the bar. He wasn’t from their remote little hamlet, and he was quite young. Helga narrowed her eyes at the splash of acne half hidden under his unruly brown hair, and revised that to _distressingly_ young.

“Who’s asking?” Helga asked. It was a stupid question, because it was obvious that he was from the Seer’s tower, and must have been a very new initiate, given his youth and the fact that his bottle blue robe was still fresh and brightly dyed. She was more interested in how he responded than what he had to say, since he’d likely be lying anyways. It could go one of two ways- irritation, meaning he had been sent on some make-work assignment involving Helga, or caution, if his mission was too dangerous for many people to know about. Given her history, Helga knew that the first reaction would be better for her peace of mind.

The seer’s lips thinned at her question, and he said, with a levity he clearly didn’t feel, “Ah, I’m a family friend. Just passing through. If she isn’t around, it’s no matter.”

Helga snorted because this seer was possibly the worst liar she’d ever met. To begin with no one ever just _passed_ through the village of Brell, since there wasn’t much to find on the other side of it. She sighed deeply.

“I’m Helga,” she said.

The seer’s eyebrows shot up. “ _You’re_ Helga?” He repeated. His eyes swept her up and down, taking in her graying red braid, and her worn-out, homespun apron and dress. He smiled, a little patronizingly, and said, “Ah, I apologize if I wasn’t clear- I’m not looking for just any woman named Helga, I’m looking for a woman known as Hellraiser Helga, Bane of the Drazhan Forest Orcs, Keeper of the sacred flame of Andor, and Champion of-”

“-of Thu-Alma, and a half dozen other ridiculous titles, yes,” Helga said.

“You’re Helga,” The seer repeated again, this time sounding a little faint.

“A pleasure to meet you, seer,” Helga said. She signaled for her barmaid, Glenda, to take over behind the bar, and said to the seer, “Why don’t you come sit down and tell me why you’ve been sent all this way to find me.”

She led the seer to the tavern’s tiny backroom, since she doubted this was a conversation she’d want shared by all the nosey villagers in Brell.

“I was expecting someone more...” The seer trailed off, obviously unable to find a word diplomatic enough.

“Male?” Helga suggested.

“... I was going to say youthful,” The seer said, though he had the decency to look at least a little sheepish.

Helga rolled her eyes. Honestly. “Oh yes, sending an untrained teenager to do the work of a warrior. That always gets the job done. Thankfully, the gods seem to have more sense than we give them credit for.”

The seer cleared his throat uncomfortably, but notably didn’t argue with her.

“So, Old Man Blyss sent you to find me,” Helga prompted, when it became clear that the seer wasn’t about to start talking.

“Old man... You mean His Grace, Duke Sylven, the High Seer of the White Tower?” The seer demanded, scandalized.

Helga raised her eyebrows. “Duke? He finally got that title, did he? Didn’t think his father would ever kick the bucket.” Blyss had been old when she’d entered the Seer’s tower when she’d been in her thirties, and his father had practically been living stone. Blyss had once, while in a particularly bad mood, said that his father would be around to greet Death Herself when She came to gather the last of the world’s souls when the grand tapestry of all life unraveled. Helga distantly wondered if Blyss’s father had just faked his death to get a little peace and quiet. It was what she might have done, in his situation.

The seer seemed at a loss for words, but managed to gather himself with great effort. “Yes, Duke Sylven sent me on behalf of the White Tower. A prophecy of great misfortune and destruction has been made.”

“And it involves me?” Helga thought that as a grandmother, she ought to have been considered too old by the gods to be involved in any sort of prophecy, unless it involved sitting by the fire and enjoying a nice cup of mead. Then again, she’d always thought that Orus, God of Mist and Prophecy had a strange sense of humour.

“According to Duke Sylven, who was the seer gifted with the prophecy,” the seer said, and pulled a scroll out from somewhere within his voluminous robes.

“Alright, well, get on with it,” Helga said with a sigh.

“ _There will rise in Spinner’s Dell,_

_A dark wizard of powers fell,_

_His shadow is Death,_

_The source of the last breath,_

_Alone will Orus’ Champion stand,_

_With gleaming sword in hand,_

_A maiden fair with hair of reddened gold,_

_Will break Death’s strong-hold._ ”

The seer fell silent, and Helga had to bite the inside of her cheek hard to keep from bursting into laughter.

“Blyss is receiving visions in rhyme now, is he?” She asked, trying to sound sincere. _Reddened gold_ , honestly. Even when she’d been in her youthful prime that would have been a stretch.

The seer’s face flushed bright pink and he cleared his throat before admitting, “No, but Duke Sylven requested I compose a poem, as he explained it would make the prophecy sound more credible than if I simply read his written account of his vision.”

More likely, Helga thought wryly, Blyss had just wanted to mess with his naive initiate and thought Helga would be amused enough that she’d go along with things, never mind the fact that he’d _promised_ her ten years prior she’d never again be called for any such seer nonsense after all that had happened with the Mazus the Fallen.

“I’m not much of a poet,” the seer said miserably, his face all but glowing with his embarrassment. “But Lady Helga, the need is very dire. We cannot allow another dark wizard to terrorize our home. Please, you must come to Spinner’s Dell.”

“Just call me Helga,” Helga insisted, and got to her feet, dusting off the seat of her dress. “And of course I’ll be coming. I killed the last idiot who wanted to crown himself king, and I’ll do it again.”

She strode back out into the tavern, already compiling a list of supplies they’d need. It had been years since she’d gone on a proper quest like this, her travel bags might be moth-eaten for all she knew...

There was much to do before Hellraiser Helga could take to the road once again.

*~*~*~*

“So, what more can you tell me about this prophecy?” she asked the seer- Taniel, she’d learned- once they were out on the road.

“Well,” Taniel said, hesitating. “There isn’t much to say.”

“How many visions were there? It was Blyss who had the vision, right?” she asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. She was about as ham-handed as could be when it came to doing magic herself, but she’d heard Blyss ranting about prophecy enough times to have a fair grasp on how it worked. Seers would receive the same vision several times, each repetition revealing more details of the shape of the prophecy. The process could take anywhere from months to decades, but the general rule of thumb was that the prophecy couldn’t be relied upon until the seer had had three visions.

“Yes,” Taniel agreed.

“And what- it was just about me defeating an evil wizard? Nothing else?” Helga asked.

“Well, not precisely,” Taniel said.

Helga abruptly yanked her horse to a halt.

“Look,” she said, with a patience she didn’t have. “You can either tell me _everything_ about this prophecy, or I can turn around and go home and _you_ can go fight this wizard all on your own.”

Taniel’s face turned the colour of old milk and he hastily said, “No- no, please don’t. It’s just... not a terribly detailed vision. All his Grace could say was that there was a red-haired woman with a sword, and a necromancer. In the following visions he learned that if the necromancer wasn’t struck down, the dead across the kingdom would be raised.”

“And Blyss just assumed the woman was me?” She asked skeptically. “Contrary to what you lot might think, there’s more than one red-haired warrior in the entire kingdom.”

“It was less he knew it was you, and more...” Taniel hesitated, pursing his lips. “Well, Duke Sylven thought that if we, um, _compelled_ the prophecy to come true sooner than later, we could cut the necromancer down before he comes to his full power. As it happens, you are the only red-haired warrior in the kingdom whom Duke Sylvan could call on right away.”

“Wait, are you telling me that his lordliness the wise, all-knowing High Seer of the White Tower is deigning to interfere with the future the God of prophecy has woven for us mere mortals?”

“N- not exactly,” Taniel said. “Think of it more as a... pre-emptive strike.”

“Ha!” Helga said, nudging her horse back into motion. “I knew yelling at Blyss about the seer guild sitting on that last prophecy for _two hundred years_ without doing a damn thing to prepare would do some good.”

“Th-That was you?” Taniel demanded, growing even paler if possible.

Helga snorted. It seemed her reputation preceded her.

“Don’t worry, Taniel,” Helga said brightly. “I save my shouting for very important matters. Like when ten thousand villagers are killed because the seer’s guild thought it was better to let things happen _as the Gods will it_ , or whatever it is you lot go on about.”

Somehow, Taniel didn’t seem all that comforted.

*~*~*~*

Spinner’s Dell wasn’t the absolute last place Helga would have thought a necromancer would spring up from, but it still seemed pretty unlikely. The little town got its name from its primary trade of wool, and was about as far away from any of the magical guilds you could get without leaving the kingdom, or ending up in Brell. It was, in short, completely pointless place to assume control of, unless you cared deeply about the kingdom’s textile industry.

They spent the better part of an hour strolling through the picturesque streets and alleys, looking for the telltale signs of a budding necromancer- dismembered corpses, blood smeared on windows and door frames, a general feeling of unease. But, Spinner’s Dell held none of those things, and was in fact, almost obnoxiously charming in every way.

Finally, Helga had had enough and demanded, “Alright, are you absolutely _certain_ Blyss said Spinner’s Dell? And not... Something similar?”

Taniel had the daring to give her a flat look and said, “Ah yes, I’ve forgotten about the many other villages that his lord the Duke might have gotten confused with, like _Gwinner’s Mell_ or _Twinner’s Smell_.”

“You have an unparalleled talent for rhyming,” Helga said, but took his point and was forced to accept that somehow the quaint little village had managed to produce a dark wizard.

Eventually, they had to give up with the dying light, and found an inn to spend the night in. Taniel seemed faintly disappointed, like he’d thought that dark wizards might be defeated in a day, but Helga wasn’t done yet. She hung around the inn’s common room and bought several mugs of decent ale (but not as good as what she served at her own tavern) for a few chatty locals over the course of the evening.

Once she figured their tongues were sufficiently wetted, she asked as casually as she could manage, “This may sound like an odd question, but have there been any unusual deaths in the area recently?” Helga was known for many things, but subtlety wasn’t one of them.

The group of villagers she’d picked weren’t drunk enough to not give her a strange look at that, but the woman, who’d introduced herself as Ygritte, said, with a frown, “Unusual? Not that I can think of.”

Before Helga could sigh and give up this tract too, her husband, Rolf, elbowed her and said, “No, but what about that old drunkard Theo? Died outside of town last week.”

Cautiously, Helga let her hopes grow ever so slightly.

“He tripped over his own drunk feet and drowned in the river, hardly what I’d call unusual,” Ygritte sniffed.

“Well, I don’t know, Lady Helga might find it odd,” Rolf retorted back. “Besides it _was_ odd that he was able to pay off his tab at _The Spindle_ that night, everyone always knew he didn’t have two pieces of copper to rub together.”

Helga sighed, wanting to give up for the night right then and there. She’d been hoping for information on a dangerous necromantic wizard and all she’d gotten was a dead drunkard. If that wasn’t a sign to just give in and head for bed, Helga didn’t know what was.

“Wait,” Sigrid, the third villager, said. “What about Dirk and Annika Weaver? Those were right odd deaths, if I say so myself.”

Ygritte rolled her eyes and said, “Sigrid, the lady adventurer said _recent_ deaths. Those poor souls passed on nearly a year ago.”

“Almost exactly a year ago...” Rolf said thoughtfully.

“It was a right shame about their son too,” Sigrid added.

“I doubt Lady Helga would care about something that happened so long ago anyways,” Ygritte said dismissively. “Why don’t you go make yourself useful and fetch us another round.”

“Wait,” Helga said and grabbed Sigrid’s arm before she could rise from their little table. “I am interested. What happened to the Weavers and their son?”

Sigrid shot Ygritte a smug look and obviously took great pleasure in starting to tell the tale. “Well, it happened last year, a year ago this eve. It was an awful cold night for midspring, snow and everything-”

“What does it matter if it was snowing?” Ygritte interrupted. “It wasn’t that odd to get snow so late.”

“Shush! I’m setting that up- and it matters because it meant it was right odd for the Weaver’s house to burn to the ground like it did.”

“It was an old house,” Rolf pointed out. “Those cedar houses burn like paper at times. I always told the Weavers they ought to have built with stone like everyone else.”

“You shush too!” Sigrid snapped. “It might have been normal for snow, and it might have been normal for a cedar house to burn- but the thing is, Lady Helga, it burned right down to ashes, but Dirk and Annika weren’t burnt none at all.”

Helga’s eyebrows shot up into her hair. “What?” she demanded. That smacked of some serious magic.

Sigrid nodded importantly. “They were found in the root cellar, not a burn on the pair of them, but bless their souls they were dead and cold when they were found the next day.”

“They probably just hid in the cellar to try and survive the flames. It wasn’t that odd,” Ygritte grumbled, but she didn’t sound like she fully believed it herself.

“And it was right after they’d sent their son off to the wizard’s college down in Pearlfell, not a month after he left,” Sigrid added, completely ignoring Ygritte’s scoff of disbelief.

“Those wizards were strange from the start,” Rolf said. “They all but forced Johan to leave with them, even when Annika begged him not to go.”

“It was a great opportunity for him,” Ygritte argued. “They said he’d become a powerful wizard. Annika was being too cautious not wanting him to go.”

“And what happened to him after the fire?” Helga asked. Suspicion was pooling in her gut.

“Never saw him again, did we? It was right odd. One of the wizards came to see to the funeral and all instead, and told us all not to worry, he’d look after Johan,” Sigrid said.

“Didn’t even come to his own parents’ funeral,” Ygritte said, tutting with dismay.

“And you said this all happened a year ago?” Helga asked.

“To the day,” Rolf agreed.

Helga thanked the trio, and went to find Taniel, who’d been cornered by very aggressive young barmaid.

“Shoo,” Helga told the girl- who really was too young for such behavior, where in the Gods’ names were her parents? “Taniel, is there a significance to the first anniversary of a death for a necromancer?”

“Thank you for- wait, what?” Taniel asked, looking baffled.

Helga quickly explained what the villagers had told her. Johan would likely be in his early twenties, since she knew the Pearlfell wizards were notorious for not taking on apprentices until they’d already mastered a trade, since it could take years to learn that you had no talent for magic and at least that way you’d have a job to fall back on, rather than join the score of young people who left wizard colleges without a thing to show for it. Twenty was a bit young for evil wizardry, in Helga’s opinion, but to be honest she suspected she was a little biased after Mazus the Fallen who’d been a good two hundred years old when Helga had killed him.

Taniel hummed thoughtfully and said, “I’ve heard of a necromantic spell that requires the death of a loved one, and which grows more powerful every year after it has been cast, though I’m not certain what precisely the caster of the spell gains.” Taniel cleared his throat and added, “I wasn’t expressly permitted to be reading that particular spell book.”

Helga’s eyebrows shot up. “Why Taniel, were you found with an evil spell book you weren’t supposed to be reading?” She demanded, almost delighted in spite of herself.

“It was vital for interpreting a very important vision,” Taniel sniffed, but his cheeks pinkened slightly. “In any case, I do recall that the spell was to be worked over the burial site of the sacrificed, and was more potent on a new moon.”

In unison, they both looked out the inn’s window. It was pitch black, with only the dim light of the stars illuminating Spinner’s Dell because it was in fact, as Helga was dismayed to remember, a new moon that evening.

“Why do these things always have to happen at night?” She asked, already imaging twisted ankles and stubbed toes from fumbling about in the dark like a pair of fools.

With ill grace, Helga fetched her cloak along with a lantern the innkeeper was kind enough to loan them, and they set off for the graveyard on the far side of the village. The streets were deserted, apart from a few rats that scuttled away at the sight of them. When they arrived at the very edge of the graveyard, Helga knew their assumptions had been on the mark- there was a fire burning in the center of the graveyard that was clearly unnatural given its immense size and bright blue hue.

Helga was almost tempted to send Taniel back to the inn for safety, or at least to avoid getting in Helga’s way- when she realized that the figure standing before the blue flames was far too small to be an evil necromantic wizard.

Helga frowned. And yet, they were in a graveyard, on the eve of a new moon, with a magical pyre burning on the gravestones of two murdered villagers. That smacked of evil wizardry to Helga.

Then the figure turned around and started at the sight of them, nearly toppling backwards into the flames. The figure was, at the absolute most, thirteen years old.

“Taniel,” Helga said carefully. “How old exactly is this prophecy?”

“Uh,” Taniel said.

“ _Taniel_ ,” Helga said, even as the figure- the boy- the _child_ cowered away from them.

“Less than a full turn of the moon,” Taniel admitted.

Helga barely resisted the urge to cover her face. Only the White Tower could go from literally forgetting about a prophecy for over a hundred years and suffering the bloody, death-strewn consequences, to jumping the gun so badly that the prophecy _hadn’t even begun_.

But this wasn’t the time to reflect on the White Tower’s many failings, because she’d be there all night, and there was a terrified young boy staring at her with eyes the size of saucers.

Helga angrily tossed her sword to the ground and, less aggressively, approached the child.

“Hello, Johan, I’m Helga. What are you doing?” she asked, crouching down next to the boy.

Johan shot her a wary look and then said quietly, “The wizards at Pearlfell killed them when I wouldn’t do as they said. I’m going to bring my parents back to kill them in turn.”

Helga eyed him- worn clothes, tear-streaked cheeks that were still round with youth, and guessed

“You just want to see them again, didn’t you?”

“It’s not fair,” Johan said, the words far too bitter to come from a boy his age.

“Most things aren’t,” Taniel said, and squatted down on the other side of Johan. The blue fire cast strange shadows across his face, making him look far older than he was. “But such is our lot as strands of the Gods’ tapestry of life. All we can do is move forward. And this?” Taniel gestured at the fire. “This won’t bring them back. Necromantic magic deals with the dead, not the living. They would come back as empty husks, not your parents.”

Johan bit his lip, but stayed silent.

Helga rested one hand on his back and said, “Why don’t you put that fire out and come back with us to the inn?”

“What about the wizards? They have to pay for this.”

Helga smiled. It wasn’t a very nice smile, and it showed far too many teeth. There was a reason she was known as Hellraiser Helga, and it wasn’t just because she’d shouted at the seers responsible for the last war. “You just leave them to me,” she promised.

The fire banked abruptly, leaving no trace behind.

Johan left the graveyard hand-in-hand with Helga.

*~*~*~*

Thousands of miles away, Duke Blyss Sylvan, High Seer of the White Tower, awoke from his deep slumber and smiled.

It had all worked out, just as he’d known it would. It was as he’d told young Taniel; the red-haired warrior woman had defeated the necromancer. Admittedly, the term necromancer was a bit nebulous, given it had only applied to one potential future version of the child, but when one lived in the realm of infinite possibilities, such things were acceptable. The results weren’t precisely what Orus, patron God of all seers, had asked for, but they were at least results that left him without blood on his hands.

And besides, he’d always known Helga had been hoping for another grandchild.


End file.
